The Song of the Blood-Red Flower Part 38

"So you came after all," she said at last in a trembling voice. "I knew you would come--some time. And good that you came just now...."

She sank back wearily on the pillow, and the man sat down on a chair at her side, still holding her hands in his.

The old woman lay with her face turned towards her son, looking at him with love in her eyes.

Then her look turned to one of questioning--there was something she had been waiting years to ask.

"Tell me, my son...." Her voice was almost a whisper.

But he could not answer.

"Olof, look at me," she begged.

And the man beside the bed lifted his eyes, great dark eyes full of weariness and stark fear--but bowed his head again and looked away.

The smile vanished from the old woman's face. She gazed long and searchingly at her son's haggard chin, his sunken cheeks and loose eyelids, the pale forehead, the furrowed temples--everything.

"Perhaps it has to be," she murmured, as if speaking to someone else. "'_And wasted all his substance.... And he said, I will arise and_....'"

Her voice trembled, and Olof, in a hasty glance, saw how her wrinkled mouth quivered with emotion.

And suddenly the coldness that had almost paralysed him up to now, seemed to melt away. He fell on his knees beside the bed, his face in the coverlet, and knelt there sobbing.

It was as in church, at the moment when each single heart withdraws from all the rest to offer up its own silent prayer.

The old woman lay resting in her bed; her face wore the same look of sorrowful gentleness that it had done for years, despite the ravages of sickness.

But to-day, signs of uneasiness were apparent; shadows of fear seemed flitting ever and anon over her features.

Olof wiped his mother's forehead gently. "You are not so well to-day?"

he asked.

"'Tis not that--no. I called you, there was something I wanted to say.

But I'm not sure--perhaps it would be better not...."

He took her withered hand tenderly in his.

"Why do you think that, mother? You have never said anything but what was good."

"'Twas meant to be so--ay, that's true. But there's times when it's hard to say what's best to do, and it's so with me now. For years I've been thinking to tell you before I closed my eyes the last time.

And it's been a comfort to me in many trials. But now I come to say it...."

The sick woman's breast heaved, and drops of sweat stood out on her forehead.

"Best not to think too much if it worries you," said Olof, wiping her brow once more. "'Twill be all right in time."

"'Tis right enough--I know that really. 'Twould be a wrong to myself and you, and to all I've hoped and believed, if I didn't speak--yet it's hard to begin. Come closer, you too, Heikki--I can't speak so loud...."

The elder brother, who had just come in from the fields with his muddy boots on, had sat down close to the door. He moved his chair now nearer the bed.

The sick woman lay for a while in thought, as if weighing the matter in her mind. Then she looked long and earnestly at her two sons.

"You two will have to divide what's left," she said at last. "And I've not said a word of it before; you're not like to quarrel over it, I know. But there's one thing in the place that I want to keep separate from the rest, and give it up to you now, before I go."

She sighed, and was silent for a while, as if needing rest before she could continue. The two young men watched her expectantly.

'"Tis nothing of great value, but it's all tied up like with something that happened once, and all the thoughts of it--and 'tis valuable to me. I mean the cupboard there."

The sons glanced at the thing where it stood; an old cupboard in two sections, that they knew well.

"You look surprised. Oh, if I could only tell you...."

She gazed upwards in silence, as if praying for strength. Then, with a strange light in her eyes, she turned towards them and went on almost in a whisper, as one who tells a tale of ghosts:

"It was long ago. In this very room, on this very bed here lay a woman who had borne a man-child but four days before. She had always been tender and faithful and obedient to her husband, and had tried to do his will in everything. And she had been happy, very happy. But before the child was born, a suspicion had begun to grow up secretly in her mind. And now, on the fifth night, as she lay there with the newborn child, in the pale light from a lamp on the shelf of the cupboard there, the fear at her heart grew all of a sudden so strong that she got up, and went into the next room, to see if what she dreaded was true...."

The sick woman turned her face to the wall, to hide the tears that forced themselves into her eyes.

"But the one she sought was not there, and driven by fear, she crossed the courtyard, barefooted, and half-clad as she was, in the cold, over to the still-room. They used to make spirits at home in those days.

She opened the door softly and looked in. There the fire was burning, and by the flickering light she saw a woman--a young woman then--lying on a bed, and beside her the man she herself had risen from her childbed to seek. And at the sight of them her heart died in her. She would have cried aloud, but only a groan came from her lips, and she went back, dreading at every step lest her legs should fail her...."

The sick woman gasped for breath, and lay trembling; the listeners sat as if turned to stone.

"How she got back," went on the old woman, "she did not know herself; only there she was, sitting on the bed beside her child, pressing her hands to her breast, that felt as if it would burst. Then she heard footsteps outside, and a moment later the door opened, and with a roar like a wild beast, a man strode in--furious, with bloodshot eyes.

He uttered a dreadful curse, and swung up an axe above his head. The woman almost fainted with fright. Then behind him she saw her sister reaching up with a cry of horror towards the axe he held. It flew from his hand, the steel shone in the lamplight--and what happened after she did not know...."

It was as if the axe had fallen at that moment, striking them all three. The mother closed her eyes. Olof was trembling from head to foot; his brother crouched in his seat, his features stiff with horror.

"When she came to herself," went on the sick woman in a trembling voice, "her husband was sitting beside her, with his head in his hands, his face ashy pale, his eyes bloodshot, and his body trembling all over as if shivering with cold. The axe had flown straight over the place where mother and child had been, missing them by an inch, and stuck fast in the cupboard beyond--it was standing there as it stands now...."

The woman sighed as if in relief to find the danger past.

Olof grasped her hand eagerly, pressed it, and looked imploringly into her eyes.

"Yes, yes," she nodded, "he begged forgiveness--and she forgave him.

And they were friends again. And that night he fetched up some putty from the cellar and filled the hole the axe had made, and painted it over afterwards. But--you can see where it was...."

Olof rose to his feet and walked over mechanically to the cupboard; his elder brother sat still on his chair, looking over at the place in silent horror.

"You can see--it struck just between the two sides, and cut deep into the edges. It's plain to be seen, for all it's painted over now. As for the woman...."

She broke off suddenly, her face pale and bloodless, her features quivering with painful emotion.

"The woman--she forgave him, and never a harsh word between them after. Folk said they lived so happily together.... But the hurt--the hurt was there. A woman's heart's not a thing to be healed with any putty and paint...."